The first sign of royalty is the smell of paint. Grey Gables was repainted – grey, of course – and a long-standing red wine stain was professionally removed from reception. (Why do I feel that the duchess, almost alone among the royals, would probably feel quite at home with red wine stains?) Ian, the gay chef, was told his High Tea must be historic. He considered dazzling the duchess with his celebrated shortbread but delicacy intervened. "It might seem competitive. Have you tried Duchy shortbread? That's very good." (Why do I feel that, if she never sees another petticoat tail, she will die a happy woman?)

The loyal peasantry will gather at the gate and raise a ragged cheer. Very much like Linda's panto, really. Linda herself has wangled a front row seat in reception. We did hope that a golden-haired child – Lily or Phoebe or even Molly Button – would present the duchess with a posy, but Clarence House specifically requested no anarchists and no eight-year-old children. Both tend to be disruptive.

Meanwhile, at Lower Loxley, David Archer has been under the thumb of Mrs Barrington Hughes, who is as near as dammit a duchess ("The Barrington Hughes family owns a substantial part of Borsetshire.") More a terrifying invisible presence than a person, she loomed like a battleship emerging from a fog. As Nigel has slipped off, so to speak, David, as simple a soul as ever drenched a heifer, volunteered to organise a big society wedding to Mrs Barrington Hughes' satisfaction. Now he knows how the toad beneath the harrow feels. He finally snapped, like a farmer spotting Janet Street Porter on his land: "I just want to throw dung at everyone!"

It must be the double barrel that gets people's goat. Mrs Parker Bowles used to have the same problem.